


fantasize I'm the track that you tweakin'

by dangercupcake



Series: Starstruck [3]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Engagement, Kinky sex, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Post-Hockey, Preparing for a newborn, Relationship Issues, discussions around coming out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-12-02 15:03:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11511831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dangercupcake/pseuds/dangercupcake
Summary: After another Sunday dinner full of Mike’s mom asking questions about their plans for the baby that are not very cleverly disguised pokes at how she thinks they’re being irresponsible, Mike packs up all the unbuilt baby stuff in the nursery and brings it to the fire pit in the back, and sets it all on fire. It takes some gasoline, but he manages it.





	fantasize I'm the track that you tweakin'

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to wearemany for the beta! ♥

Mike really likes it when he’s face down and Latts holds him down and fucks him really hard. He’s gotta make sure he’s, like, ready for it, because he doesn’t like _a mess_ , and he’s gotta make sure he’s, like, mentally ready for it, because to be the smaller guy and be held down . . . it took him a while, when he first started doing this, to get used to that, to not have it feel weird or wrong or upsetting, and now he just needs to get into a good place in his head. He needs to be having a good day. Needs to be fucking for a good reason. 

He’s never been fucked by someone smaller than him. He knows that says something about him and his tastes and whatever, but who cares.

And these days, he feels kind of fucked up by it after, when he and Latts curl up together and he holds Latts and there’s all this _stuff_ between them that Mike’s not ready for, but also stuff that he _wants_. Can’t he have one without the other?

Today Latts is holding him down and biting his neck and snapping his hips in. There’s a deep ache, but Mike _wants it_ , can’t stop himself from making noise and pushing back, like he’s far outside himself and his body is just doing what it was programmed to do.

“Want it--” pants Latts, and Mike’s back in his body.

“Fucking me like you’re gonna knock me up,” he gets out, joking a little, and then groans when Latts strokes his dick.

“Wanna put a baby inside you,” Latts tells him, “wanna make a family with you. Watch you grow our baby.” Then he bites Mike on the shoulder again.

“Oh fuck,” moans Mike. “What the fuck.” Then he comes everywhere, and suddenly the fucking is too much and his whole body clenches down on Latts. Everything feels so good it hurts -- he wants it to stop, and also to never stop. 

Latts holds him tight while he comes, while he shakes and shudders and says, “Richie, Richie, fuck.”

Mike’s lying in the wet spot, so he’s got come all over him, but he’s holding Latts. The first time Latts had seen the special trash basket for condoms (and whatever) next to the bed, he’d ribbed Mike about being a ‘real adult’ but he stopped laughing when he didn’t have to go to the fucking bathroom every time he needed to take off a condom, didn’t he. Now they can just fucking cuddle, all sweaty and disgusting, without having to move.

“You wanna get me pregnant, huh?” says Mike, feeling, like, a glow of . . . love. But also the glow of having something good to chirp with.

“Oh shut up,” says Latts, his face half in Mike’s armpit. “Now I can’t stop thinking about it. You and me, making our _own_ baby. It’s so hot.”

“You want me to get fat and have to pee all the time?” That’s basically all Mike knows about pregnancy. Also swollen ankles, he thinks, and the baby kicks from inside the body, which is a little badass.

“I want to feel the baby inside you,” Latts says, and puts his hand on Mike’s stomach. “You incepted me. I want us to be a family.”

“We _are_ gonna be a family. You and me and the baby. It’s all about us now,” Mike tells him, and can _feel_ his dick chub up against Mike’s leg. Well, good, because that’s how Mike feels too. 

*

There is so much to do to get ready for a baby. Mike wants to hire people to do it; Latts wants to do it himself. Mike already knows neither of them are adult enough to paint the nursery, but they finally get it done. They order a rocking chair and try build it together but end up fucking on top of all the pieces, and the chair never gets built. They order a crib and end up fucking on the pieces and the crib never gets built. They order a car seat and Mike throws it on the ground when he can’t figure out how to get it installed in the truck, and punches the side of the truck, and Latts puts his hand in a bowl of ice and installs it himself, and there’s no sex that night. 

Neither of them talk about how neither of them are really _parent material_ \-- quote, unquote, thanks, Mom.

After another Sunday dinner full of Mike’s mom asking questions about their plans for the baby that are not very cleverly disguised pokes at how she thinks they’re being irresponsible, Mike packs up all the unbuilt baby stuff in the nursery and brings it to the fire pit in the back, and sets it all on fire. It takes some gasoline, but he manages it. 

Latts comes down, actually dressed for the beginning of December, and links his arms around Mike’s chest, and rests his chin on Mike’s shoulder.

“Are you freaking out?” he asks.

Mike stares at the burning crib.

“No,” he scoffs.

“Okay. Because it would be okay if you are. Because Tracey is coming up here for the last bit of her pregnancy soon and you’ve had scary eyes since we decided she was gonna have the baby here. And Biz keeps texting me because you’re not texting him back.”

“Biz should mind his own business.” Mike clenches his jaw, but brings his hands up to hold Latts’ hands. “Why aren’t you freaking out?”

“I’m freaking out a little? But, like, I really like babies. They’re kind of like puppies that grow up into humans. I know your mom is being kind of a dick about this, but I don’t think we’re going to screw up that bad. Don’t drop it, don’t feed it poison, keep it clean. People have been doing this for like millions of years. I’m more worried about, like . . .” Latts shrugs. It feels weird against Mike’s back. “Are you worried about people, like, finding out?”

“I post a picture of you to my Instagram every day, Mikey, I think the cat’s out of the bag,” says Mike drily.

“I posted a picture of Willy to my Insta every day for like six months, Richie.” Latts kisses his neck. “It was still bros. Brobeans.”

“I posted a picture of you kissing my cheek.”

“Doesn’t matter. If we don’t say it’s gay, it’s still not gay. Even if we say it’s gay, we could probably say no homo, and we’d get some dirty looks, but --”

“Who would I be saying no homo to, Latts?” Mike steps away from the fire and turns to look at him. “I’m retired. Hockey can go fuck itself.”

“You _do_ want to coach and you _don’t_ mean that, don’t think I don’t know.”

“I’ll coach mite, I don’t care. I’ll be a stay at home dad and teach our kid the alphabet.” Anything to get that look off Latts’ face. “Do you -- you aren’t retiring?”

“I’m definitely retiring. I was thinking, like, college or something. Online classes. Learn a skill.” Latts shakes his head. “But you’re --”

“I will post a picture of a sonogram and say it’s our kid right now, Mikey. I keep saying we’re a family. What do I have to do to make you believe it?” Mike holds him by the biceps and squeezes.

“I don’t know. Maybe stop freaking out?”

“I definitely won’t be able to do that. I am freaking out. Can we please _hire people_ to put the baby shit together?”

Latts takes his hand and pulls him to sit down on one of the folding chairs and watch the fire. “Are you still freaking out about Jeff Carter?”

“I don’t want to talk about Carts, man.”

“You don’t want to talk about _anything_ , Richie, and it’s freaking _me_ out. One day I’m gonna wake up and you’re gonna be gone and I’m not even gonna know why because you’re not gonna want to talk about it. What am I gonna tell our kid? Sorry, Dad left, we’ll find out why from fucking Barstool.”

“You think I’d leave you and the kid?” asks Mike hotly.

“How would I _know_?”

“You wanna get married?” asks Mike angrily, and then realizes: there was a better way to do that.

“Nope,” says Latts as his face does something horrible and complicated; then he stands up and walks away.

“Fuck,” says Mike to the fire, and it snaps and pops like it’s agreeing with him.

*

Latts has bigger hands than him, Mike doesn’t know how to buy an engagement ring for a guy, and Latts doesn’t want to get married. Mike is like 90% sure that Latts _does_ want to get married and that face was because Mike is an asshole. At least thanks to Kenora’s growing population and the tourism, Mike no longer has to drive 200 km to Winnipeg if he wants to go to a mall. He just has to put the fire out, jump in his truck, and drive away. He doesn’t even have to plow out any roads first, because Kenora plows them out regularly now.

He stops for a cup of coffee on the way, and sits in the truck in the parking lot of the Starbucks. He writes and rewrites the text he wants to send to Latts.

 _I know this started out as me taking care of ur problem,_ he writes. _It kind of evolved into more, but what if it’s not really more? What if I’m fooling myself here? I’m a stupid old addict, what do you want with me? Why do you want ur baby to have anything to do w me? When are u going to leave me like everyone else has? Yes thats a reference to carts. So just… think about that I guess. Let me know._

He saves that draft, drinks the rest of his coffee, and then hits send. His mom always said to him, “In for a penny, in for a pound.” He finally understands what that means. A little bit in? No, fuck that, all in.

*

Mike wants to text someone for help. Like -- Mr. Game 7 would know what he was doing in this situation. Stick would be the best help, even over the phone. But Mike hasn’t come right out and said what’s going on to any of his friends. Definitely not to Cabbie. He DMs on Insta sometimes with Mitchie about fish. He DMs on Insta sometimes with Brownie about _his_ kids. He doesn’t . . . talk about _his life_ with his guys anymore. Even with Stick, he talks mostly about Arnold. 

It’s just fucking awkward.

He can’t just _call Stick_ and be like, “Help me pick out an engagement ring for Latts, because I wanna marry him and have his babies. Literally we’re having a baby in a month.” It would be a whole thing, he’d have to explain, Stick would tell him why all his decisions are wrong, just like Jeff and his parents did, it would be -- awful, it would be awful to lose his real friends over this. 

Mike goes into a store with glittery stuff on the wall and buys a plain titanium band with diamonds inset into it. A lot of diamonds. Latts never got a Stanley Cup ring with all its diamonds, but maybe this will make up for it. The guy at the store says it’s an “eternity ring”. Okay, eternity. It’s too big for Mike’s finger, so it has a shot at fitting Latts. Mike knows it’s not really special, just a chain store ring, but if Latts says yes, then Mike will have the rest of their lives to put expensive jewelry on him. Starting with a decent watch, maybe. A heavy necklace. Get rid of his crap, replace it all with diamonds that spell out THIS BELONGS TO RICHIE.

Mike tucks the ring box into his front pocket. Then he heads to Babies ‘R’ Us. He doesn’t check his phone. 

This store is _crazy_. This is so much better than buying from Amazon the way Latts likes to do. This has everything and he can see it all. He doesn’t buy furniture, they can order that (and have someone else put it together); he buys baby clothes. Toys. Books. He fills up his cart. There are actual babies here. There’s a mother breastfeeding like it’s normal to just have your boob out. Maybe it is; Mike doesn’t know. He’s pretty glad he doesn’t have to breastfeed, though. It looks kind of painful. 

Waiting in line to pay, he thumbs a text to his agent: _Latts and I gonna get married. Low key. But we’re probably gonna come out. Do u wanna call and yell at me, or are you gonna dump me as ur client?_

He’s got a text from Latts, but he doesn’t want to look at it, stays in the conversation with his agent waiting for -- there it is: _RICHIE YOU ARE SUCH AN ASSHOLE CALL ME ASAP_

*

He talks to his agent the whole way home, ring burning a hole in his pocket. They talk about coming out, and media, and timelines, and how people might want him to do talks about what it was like being a gay hockey player and in the closet during his career. They talk a little about the girls, and they talk about Jeff. Mike even gets through the conversations without pulling over to throw up, although his stomach is in knots.

“You’ve gotta pull yourself together,” his agent tells him. “I’m never gonna fire you for this penny-ante shit. You don’t know the kind of crap I fire people for. It’s not this.”

Given the stuff Mike has put his agent through in the last five years that the guy has just thrown out the window as “penny-ante,” he’s got to wonder what exactly would get him fired.

Once Mike is home and safely in the garage, he looks down at his phone. 6% battery left. And Latts’ text message. 

_Theres a reason I came to you. Theres a reason I wanted you. You think we EVOLVED? We were already THERE. You dumb fucking asshole. Jesus Christ. Where are you?_

Mike tucks the phone into his back pocket and gets out of the truck, pulls the bags out of the truck. He kicks off his boots and avoids the snow and dirt they tracked into the mud room.

Arnold wags his tail when he sees Mike, but doesn’t get up from in front of the fire in the living room. Latts is on the couch, curled up under a blanket, crackers and a mug on the table in front of him. It’s such a deja vu moment, Mike has to stop for a second. 

The bags get lugged to the stairs, and then Mike crouches down in front of Latts with the ring box out. This is going to slap back and hit him in the balls probably.

“Hey Mikey,” says Mike softly. He kisses him gently to try to wake him up. 

“Hey,” yawns Latts. “Hey.”

Before he can say anything else, Mike’s got the ring box open. “Look, I’m a dumbass asshole. But I wanna have a family with you. I want this with you. Not, like, not with anyone else, not by myself. If it wasn’t you, I dunno if I even want a kid. I want _your_ kid, and I want you. I don’t want to talk about Carts leaving because I don’t want you to know why he left and then leave me too. I want you to stay with me, I want you to wear this ring and promise to stay with me, and I want you to be the one person in my life who’s never going to break that promise.”

“Jesus, Richie,” says Latts. He touches the ring box. “Is this shit real?”

“Come on,” says Mike. “Put it on.” He takes it out of the box and tries to put it on Latts’ finger, but Latts stops him. Mike feels like he’s pretty sure he’s going to die.

“Wrong hand, dumbass.” Latts holds out his left hand. “Put it on me.”

Mike slides it on him. It’s a little loose, but it looks good.

“I’m not leaving you. I got over my hero worship like -- whatever, a year and a half ago,” says Latts. “But you can’t just fucking run away either. You have to tell me shit. We’re not hockey assholes anymore. In like a month we’re gonna be dads. We have to act like it.”

“Mikey, I’m always gonna be a hockey asshole.”

“You’re only an asshole when you remember that you’ve been pretending to be. Most of the time we’re having a really nice life.”

Mike hangs his head. “We’re not having a nice life if every time I do something, you think it’s because Carts left me.”

“Okay, man, but, like, you are really hung up on the fact that he left you.” Latts touches his face with the hand with the ring on it. “I’m not gonna leave you no matter what happens, like -- if you start drinking again, if you need help, I’ll still be here. I’m not going to leave you, I’m not going to leave you for a _woman_ , I don’t know which part bugs you out more, but I’m not the same guy he is. I don’t have his hangups.”

“You have your own hangups,” grumbles Mike.

“I just don’t like when stuff touches my ass,” says Latts defensively. “Shut up.”

“I was just teasing,” says Mike. “Sorry, c’mere.” Mike clambers onto the couch and presses against Latts. The couch was made for one biggish hockey player to lie comfortably on -- not two. But they don’t need to be comfortable, and Mike’s kind of over how he’s never gonna be the biggish one anyway.

He kisses Latts’ neck, his chin, his mouth. “Number one dad,” he murmurs into the kiss, and Latts sighs happily. Mike likes that the ring is big enough that he can feel it everywhere Latts is touching him. He wants to roll them so he’s on the bottom, but they’ll just end up on the floor and miserable.

“Can we take this to a bed?” he asks. A warm bed, hopefully.

“Can I hold you down?” asks Latts.

“Definitely.”

They race up the stairs and Mike lets Latts win, but only because he knows Latts is going to be the one who remembers their anniversary for the rest of their lives.

***


End file.
